Poems (Stoddard)/November

For works with similar titles, see November.
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NOVEMBER.
MUCH have I spoken of the faded leaf; Long have I listened to the wailing wind,And watched it ploughing through the heavy clouds, For autumn charms my melancholy mind.
When autumn comes, the poets sing a dirge: The year must perish; all the flowers are dead;The sheaves are gathered; and the mottled quail Runs in the stubble, but the lark has fled!
Still, autumn ushers in the Christmas cheer, The holly-berries and the ivy-tree: ​They weave a chaplet for the Old Year's bier These waiting mourners do not sing for me!
I find sweet peace in depths of autumn woods, Where grow the ragged ferns and roughened moss;The naked, silent trees have taught me this,— The loss of beauty is not always loss!
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